Darkness at length fairly settled upon the wood and stream; the gloom around became deep and impressive.  The inevitable haunch of venison was roasting before the roaring fire, Teddy watching and attending it with all the skill of an experienced cook.  While thus engaged, the missionary and his wife were occupied in tracing the course of the Mississippi and its tributaries upon a pocket map, which was the chief guide in that wilderness of streams and “tributaries.”  Who could deny the vastness of the field, and the loud call for laborers, when such an immense extent then bore only the name of “Unexplored Region!” And yet, this same headwater territory was teeming with human beings, as rude and uncultivated as the South Sea Islanders.  What were the feelings of the faithful couple as their eyes wandered to the left of the map, where these huge letters confronted them, we can only surmise.  That they felt that ten thousand self-sacrificing men could be employed in this portion of the country we may well imagine.

As the evening meal was not yet ready, the missionary folded the map and fell to musing—­musing of the future he had marked out for himself; enjoying the sweet approval of his conscience, higher and purer than any enjoyment of earth.  All at once came back the occurrence of the afternoon, which had been absent from his thoughts for the hour past.  But, now that it was recalled, it engaged his mind with redoubled force.

Could he be assured that it was a red-man who had fired the shot, the most unpleasant apprehension would be dissipated; but a suspicion would haunt him, in spite of himself, that it was not a red-man, but a white, who had thus signified his hostility.  The rolling of the stones must have been simply to call his attention, and the rifle-shot was intended for nothing more than to signify that he was an enemy.

And who could this enemy be?  If a hunter or an adventurer, would he not naturally have looked upon any of his own race, whom he encountered in the wilderness, as his friends, and have hastened to welcome them?  What could have been more desirable than to unite with them in a country where whites were so scarce, and almost unknown?  Was it not contrary to all reason to suppose that a hermit or misanthrope would have penetrated thus far to avoid his brother man, and would have broken his own solitude by thus betraying his presence?

Such and similar were the questions Harvey Richter asked himself again and again, and to all he was able to return an answer.  He had decided who this strange being might possibly be.  If it was the person suspected, it was one whom he had met more frequently than he wished, and he prayed that he might never encounter him again in this world.  The certainty that the man had dogged him to this remote spot in the West; that he had patiently plodded after the travelers for many a day and night; that even the trackless river had not sufficed to place distance between them; that, undoubtedly, like some wild beast in his lair, he had watched Richter and his companions as they sat or slumbered near their camp-fire—­these, we may well surmise, served to render the missionary for the moment excessively uncomfortable, and to dull the roseate hues in which he had drawn the future.